


The Lift: Scenario Three

by maddiemaynot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, like the softest thing i've written probably, soft, you go too SLOW for your angel Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 11:29:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21160937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddiemaynot/pseuds/maddiemaynot
Summary: "What if Aziraphale and Crowley get stuck in a lift together?"Scenario Three: In which Aziraphale takes the lead.(Beta-ed by the wonderful definitelynotcharlea)





	The Lift: Scenario Three

“A power cut,” Aziraphale murmurs and the lift stops dead, suspended between floors three and two. The lights die and all that can really be seen is the glow in the dark safety poster next to the buttons on the wall.

Crowley and Aziraphale have been for a late afternoon tea. Aziraphale had eaten scones with jam and cream while Crowley had sipped a black coffee and watched. They’d talked about inconsequential things – the book Aziraphale was currently reading, Crowley’s plants, the repair works on the north circular road. The evening is due to round off at the bookshop. Aziraphale’s wine collection has been slowly dwindling since the summer and the Armageddon-that-wasn’t and the duo have made an unspoken agreement to try and finish the lot before Christmas. 

They agreed some weeks before that life was too short. Armageddon had taught them a lot, but life being too short was the main thing. Therefore, two nights after they had (rather cleverly in both their opinions) tricked Hell and Heaven into leaving them alone for the time being, Crowley had turned up at A. Z. Fell & Co.’s drunk and almost sobbing. The angel had bundled the distraught demon into the shop and a few hours of conversation spent on the sofa had finally led to It. It being the big confession. Crowley admitting he’d fallen for the angel some six thousand years ago.

“I realised when you saved my books. Nineteen forty-something. Second world war. That’s when I knew,” Aziraphale had responded, and Crowley’s heart had almost shattered into a thousand pieces on the spot. The angel had known, for almost a hundred years. 

“Forget it, angel. Forget I said anything.” He had staggered to his feet and tried to leave the shop via a bookshelf that he was certain would become a door if he just wished hard enough. Aziraphale had come up behind him, placing steady, sober hands on each of Crowley’s elbows, steering him back to the threadbare settee in the back room of the shop. He had sat down next to Crowley and taken one of the demon’s hands in between his own and held it tight on his lap.

“It’s just. Well, at the time I was still very much subscribed to the idea that even our  _ friendship _ was something bad.” Aziraphale had looked down at the demon and found a pair of yellow eyes staring right at him, surprisingly focused for how drunk Crowley had been moments prior. “But since heaven and hell have agreed to leave us alone for the time being…”

Aziraphale hadn’t said the words outright and yet the weight of what he was saying was not lost on Crowley. He had gripped Aziraphale’s hand tightly, holding on for fear he would float away on the sea of emotions coursing through him.

They spent that night on the sofa. Crowley had slept soundly, aided by the alcohol, one arm thrown over the angel’s midriff, the other sandwiched underneath him, still clasped in Aziraphale’s. The angel, who had never seen the point in sleep, had merely enjoyed the peaceful sounds of the demon’s light snoring. 

No more had been said since that night. The hand holding had remained and Aziraphale had come close once or twice to kissing the demon, but he had held back so far. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. But old habits die hard and he had played the part of stuffy angel for millennia. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to hold himself back from touching Crowley, even before Armageddon, and he’s sure it won’t be the last. He finds he is just waiting for the right moment. Even if he has to orchestrate it himself.

Crowley, on the other hand, is terrified. Echoes of the 1960s ring in his ears with every touch. He’s got no idea how fast is too fast for the angel and would prefer to let Aziraphale take the lead, even if that means waiting another six thousand years for a progression on the hand holding. 

And now? They’re trapped in a lift, frozen in place with nothing but the four walls surrounding them. And each other of course.

Aziraphale crosses his legs and lowers himself to the floor of the lift. He pats the floor next to him. “Sit, Crowley.”

Crowley obliges and the angel reaches over and takes his hand. 

“Bloody London power grid. You’d think it’d be more robust and yet…” Crowley gestures vaguely in the direction of the closed lift doors. 

“Well we might as well make the most of it, my dear,” Aziraphale says, giving Crowley’s hand a squeeze. He shuffles around slightly, so that his body is angled more towards the demon. “Let’s talk.”

“Talk?” Crowley is horrified. Talking is scary. Talking leads to drunken confessions of love on antique sofas in bookshops. Talking leads to hand holding and hand holding  _ only,  _ for weeks on end. He’d rather bottle everything up for another hundred years, then relieve the pressure with some vaguely interesting human. 

Aziraphale wants to talk. He’s burned his bridges with heaven and he’s ready for more. He feels he’s made that perfectly clear. Before the Armageddon-that-wasn’t, he’d held off from even shaking the demon’s hand. Now they’ve spent a night cuddling on the sofa. They hold hands. Surely that’s signal enough that Crowley can no longer go fast enough?

“My dear, we averted the apocalypse. We’ve shared each other’s bodies and our head offices are ignoring us,” Aziraphale says. The demon opens his mouth and Aziraphale knows it’s to make some inane quip about sharing bodies. “Don’t,” he scolds. “I just feel it’s time we spoke about some things of more consequence than… books and plants and ducks.”

“Ducks? Aziraphale, when have I ever spoken about ducks? Sure, they’re out for revenge against me, but I didn’t even mention them tonight!” Crowley shifts too so that the pair of them are facing each other now. The light is low, but Crowley can make out the angel’s soft silhouette in dimness. 

“ _ Crowley. _ Just. Listen.” Aziraphale scolds. 

“Listening, angel.” 

“Heaven was… well it was wrong, Crowley. About so much. I’m done with it. Not done being an angel, that’s in my nature and it always will be. But I’m done listening to them. I’m burning my bridges.” Aziraphale is earnest in his speech. He means every word and he hopes Crowley can hear what he’s saying underneath it all. 

Crowley considers this for a second. “Done with it… all? Even… God?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “God is different. She has some other plan. The Ineffable Plan. I’ve given up trying to presume what She is thinking and I don’t think I’m going to worry so much about it. It’s like you said when we first met – I’m an angel, I don’t think I can do the wrong thing. Not really.”

“By that logic, angel, I can’t do the right thing. Being a demon.”

“That’s not what I-” Aziraphale reaches to hold Crowley’s other hand. The demon’s palm is cool to the touch and Aziraphale squeezes. “That’s not what I mean, my dear. Please don’t twist my words. If I put the effort in, we know I can do the wrong thing. How many temptations have I covered for you over the years? No, what I mean is… well, if what I choose to do feels natural, then it must be the right thing.”

Crowley nods and then remembers the darkness of the lift. “I think I understand.”

“What I mean by all this, Crowley, is that if what comes naturally to you is, by default, the wrong thing, and what comes naturally to me is the right thing, then all this makes  _ sense _ .”

The demon is lost again and tells Aziraphale so.

“It’s the wrong thing, a demon and an angel being…  _ together. _ So, it works for you. It works  _ perfectly  _ for you. You’re a demon, you’re supposed to do the wrong thing. But to experience and feel love? That’s the right thing. Angels are beings of love. What does it matter who is on the receiving end? So, it works for me too!”

“I think you might be grasping at loopholes there, angel, but I follow-” Crowley stops suddenly. “Wait. Are you saying…?”

“What I’m saying is, my dear, dear boy, that I love you. I supposed I have for a very long time now. And I’m saying that I don’t care what Heaven makes of it anymore.” Aziraphale stops and remembers a night from so long ago. The first time he tried to show Crowley just how much he loved him. Handing a tartan flask of holy water over to the demon. “I’m saying, Crowley… There’s no such thing as too fast for me. Not anymore.”

Crowley is stunned into silence. He tries to think of something, anything to say. He manages a hoarse: “I-”

Aziraphale doesn’t let him finish the thought. He has tucked his legs underneath himself so he’s kneeling and leans forward to close the last few inches between them. He lets go of Crowley’s hands and places them on the demon’s knees to steady himself as he finishes closing the gap. He catches Crowley’s open mouth with his own.

The kiss is clumsy. Their teeth bump together and Aziraphale wobbles from the awkward angle. Crowley breaks away. “Wait.”

The demon slides back, so that he’s now propped against the wall of the lift, facing the doors. He holds his arms open, indicating for Aziraphale to join him. The angel complies, curling into the crook of the demon’s arm, which tightens around his shoulders.

Aziraphale tips his face up and finds Crowley’s mouth with his own again. This time the kiss works. Lips interlocked, mouths slightly open, steady pressure. It doesn’t last very long – Aziraphale is the one to break apart this time – but it’s perfect. The demon dips his head presses his forehead to Aziraphale’s, and they sit there, arms around one another, breathing each other in, for what feels like hours. 

“Love…” Crowley murmurs after a while. He’s tasting the word on his mouth. It feels unfamiliar, although it’s a word he’s used a thousand times before. 

“Love.” Aziraphale confirms. Then he sits up suddenly. “Oh!” he exclaims.

“Angel? What’s wrong?” Crowley asks, perturbed by the interruption.

“I should start the lift again! No point sitting on this hard floor when there’s a perfectly good bookshop waiting for us!” Aziraphale says, clicking his fingers.

“Wait… it was… you mean…  _ you did this _ ?” Crowley splutters as the lift springs back to life. 

“Well, it seemed like the only way to keep you still enough to actually talk to me!” Aziraphale says, standing up. Crowley follows suit. 

The lift finishes its descent in a matter of seconds and the doors slide open. Aziraphale gestures for Crowley to step out first but the demon shakes his head and holds out his hand. The angel takes it and, as equals, they step out into the light of the ground floor of the department store. Together.


End file.
